


To Drain Our Blood and Burn Together

by SylvanWitch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Perceived Betrayal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 02:54:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean doesn't know how he got there, and Sam doesn't quite believe his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Drain Our Blood and Burn Together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oschun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oschun/gifts).



> Written in June 2008 in response to a comment challenge by oschun over at the S/D Slash Archive. She asked for hot Mexican slash with Dean, a Latin lover, and a jealous Sam. 
> 
> The title is a line from a viciously accurate love poem by Pablo Neruda called, simply, "Love."

The room is dim, sunlight filtered by moth-eaten curtains to a dense sepia tone, rays further fractured by the frenetic fanblades that make dust motes move like everything is under water.

There’s a quality of unreality, a decided sense that if he leaves the room, he’ll be in another world than central Mexico, flat up against the flaking plaster wall of a door-less shack, searing skin of the other stuck to him where they touch, unable to breathe in anything but the scent of sweat, male musk, and, strangely, cinnamon, maybe from the coffee they’d had at the café down the street.

He doesn’t ask the guy’s name, doesn’t care.  Dean rarely has to look up at anyone except Sam, a thought that he shoves ruthlessly aside even as the other man presses more heavily into him, until he can feel the lathes beneath the plaster making marks on the skin of his back.

He’ll be striped, and he shivers to think that maybe those stripes could be licked away by a willing tongue.

Right now, that tongue is laving a molten line down his sweat-slick chest, driving Dean up onto his toes with its attention to his nipples, peaking first one and then the other with brisk breaths, the only thing approaching cool in the stifling heat of midday.

 _Some siesta_ , he thinks, as the man brackets Dean’s shoulder blades with strong hands under his arms, pulling Dean away from the wall and into him, spinning them both with an expert move that makes Dean wonder about the guy’s actual occupation.

He’s pretty sure whore isn’t it, though come to it, he _is_ pretty professional.

From where he’s ended up—on his back, on the bed, legs spraddled wide, the stranger between them, standing with an open fly and closed expression—Dean admires the long stretch of smooth skin, coffee-with-cream, bared by the man’s open shirt.

The man splays his left hand wide next to Dean’s head, leans down and runs the other across the range of Dean’s ribs, delineating each one with a gentle pressure that reminds Dean—somewhat unsettlingly—of the way his father used to check for fractures after a bad hunt.

Around them, the air has the quality of noonday in the desert, minus the insistent precision of unshuttered sun.  But it’s hot like the desert, the air unmoved by the fan’s motion, the room close and still except for Dean’s breathing, hard enough to drown out any sound the other might be making.

The hand trailing fire down his midline pauses long enough to dip and rim his navel and then slide behind the button of his jeans and flick them open, and then his zipper comes down slow, so slowly Dean swears he can feel each tooth loosen its bite and release.

The denim is heavy with sweat as the man fits his hand between his open fly and his wet belly, and Dean twitches involuntarily against the intrusion, staring into the hooded eyes now dark with unadulterated lust, a hunger that makes Dean’s cock stir inside his damp boxers.

This earns him a predatory smile, all shark’s teeth and sharp blades, and Dean’s cock jumps again, filling.  He’s never been one for taking the safe road, and this is no exception.

The stranger says something, something honeyed that flows rapidly from his tongue and makes Dean shudder, though he didn’t catch a word of it.  The man’s meaning is clear, however, as he curls both hands now around Dean’s waistband and begins to slide his pants off—jeans and boxers both.

Dean cants his hips upward as best he can, helping, and wonders how far this is going to go.  The other still has his pants on, open fly showing an impressive erection that makes Dean lick his lips.

The other man mutters—approval or distraction, Dean can’t tell—and pauses with Dean’s pants at his knees to stare hard at Dean.

Who licks his lips again.

Before he can consider whether or not it’s entirely wise to tease a total stranger who’s already proven himself as strong as Dean, the stranger is abandoning Dean’s pants and stepping over them where they have caught at his bent knees.  Dean’s effectively hobbled, and the first frisson of unease shoots through him.

It’s a tight fit for the man, and Dean tries to spread his legs, a little uncomfortable with the forced proximity of the other, who is now raking his fingernails along the tender flesh of Dean’s balls.

Dean moans despite a growing worry, making a sound that rises up the scales as the man wraps an expert hand around his cock and gives a rough tug.

Dean’s hips stutter up into the touch and he throws his head back, eyes squeezing shut despite himself, the heat of the man’s palm obliterating whatever warning he’d been trying to voice.  

When the hand leaves him, he opens his eyes only long to enough to discover that the other is shimmying out of his pants, revealing his hard length, which curls upward toward his belly and promises just the kind of pleasure Dean most likes.

It takes him a long minute to remember why this is a bad idea, thinks it might have something to do with Sam or a job—maybe both—and then the man is back to his manual ministrations and it’s all Dean can do not to cry out in a way that might be universal but is certainly not his usual style.

At the first stroke of the man’s cock tight in the crease of Dean’s half-parted thighs, Dean lets out a breath and tries to focus, but when the impossibly hot shaft rubs a second time against him, this time dragging along the weight of his own aching cock, Dean forgets everything but sensation, closing his eyes and letting go of whatever hesitation had been left in him.

The spatter of hot liquid across his belly makes him crack his eyes open in surprise.  It’s not his come coating his stomach, and as he takes in the picture above him, he realizes it’s not the stranger’s come, either.

Unless the guy has some really interesting plumbing.

The pointed stake protruding from the man’s chest confirms Dean’s suspicions, and even if it hadn’t, Sam’s voice, strained as he throttles his anger, is enough to bring him back to himself.

“You enjoying yourself, Dean?”

Sam’s still got one hand on the stake, shoving it further into the stranger, who is shuddering like he’s coming apart, but not in the good way one might expect of a man with his pants on the floor who is still, even in death, sporting an impressive erection.

His brother’s got his other forearm wrapped around the man’s chest, holding him upright.

“Move,” Sam barks, and it takes Dean two tries to say, “Can’t.”  Mostly, he’s mortified to discover himself in this position.  A little, he’s horrified by the violence on his brother’s face.

Sam takes in the situation with a snort of disgust, lets go of the stake and uses both arms to lift the man up and out of the confining vee of Dean’s dropped pants.

Even as Dean struggles to sit up and pull up his pants, Sam is dropping the body of the stranger, moving to a pane-less window and opening the curtains wide.  Soon enough, a curl of sickly yellow smoke is drifting up from the body and an acrid, throat-closing stench is making the air unbreathable.

“You ready?”

Sam’s terseness, the tone, the fact that he won’t look at Dean, says more than any words exactly how much trouble Dean is in.

“Sam,” he tries, standing near the bed, unmoving despite the nauseating haze obscuring him from his brother’s sight.

“Don’t.”

“Sam,” he says again, and this time something in Dean’s voice—maybe desperation—brings Sam around.  He might be listening, but his fists are clenched against his thighs and his expression is the kind of defined indifference a man wears who is holding on to what’s left of his temper.

“How did I get here?”

Sam’s snort says he doesn’t believe Dean, and he turns toward the door again, throwing over his shoulder:  “Save it for someone who doesn’t know you so well.”

“Sam, please.”

Maybe it’s because Dean never begs—well, not generally; there might be specific circumstances, but those aren’t these—and almost never lets his voice rise like that, like he’s close to losing it.  Sam stops and turns again to face Dean, who is holding his tee-shirt against his chest like it’s some measure of protection or comfort.

“You were supposed to wait until I came into the café, remember?  That was your signal to start moving him out back, not across town to his love pad.”  The last is sounded with a note of supreme disdain, and Dean flinches.

“I remember sitting at the table with him.  I remember ordering coffee.  That’s it, Sam.  That’s the last thing I remember clearly.”

“Really?”

And Dean can tell that Sam still doesn’t entirely believe him, which hurts on a level Dean wouldn’t ordinarily acknowledge.  Sure, he’s a flirt, but when has he ever given his brother reason to doubt his loyalty—really doubt it, beyond staring at a million-dollar set of legs or admiring a particularly gravity-defying rack?

“Sam, c’mon.  You really think I’d go off willingly with some stranger we thought was a succubus?”

Dean can’t see his brother’s eyes clearly through the smoky air, but when Sam takes three steps back into the room, Dean can’t help but let out a breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding.

“You weren’t cowboying?”

Dean shakes his head, relief mixing with the first stirrings of his own anger, motions jerky as he struggles into his sweat-damp tee-shirt.  “I might not have your education—“ and there’s his own brand of disdain on that word—“but I know a lot about killing evil things, and the first rule with a succubus is not to let it get you alone.  I’m not an amateur, Sam.”

Sam runs a hand across his face, and the hand is shaking slightly, a bare tremor that he could attribute to the shimmer of ashy light from the smoldering body between them if Dean didn’t know his brother so well.

“I was three minutes behind you,” Sam says in a voice with a quiver that echoes that almost unnoticeable shaking of his hands.  “And you were gone.  I went around back, and you weren’t there.  I didn’t know what had happened to you.  I tried asking around, but somehow three years of high school Spanish didn’t prepare me for discovering the whereabouts of a gay couple out for some private sexcapades.”

Sam laughs, but there’s nothing funny in the sound, and he levels a look at Dean that is two parts anguish, one part anger, only this time the latter emotion isn’t directed at his brother.

“Are you okay?”

Dean nods, unable to speak suddenly for a thickness in his throat that threatens to break him down. 

Sam steps over the remains of the creature they’d defeated and reaches for Dean, who steps back out of the orbit of his brother’s arms.

“You really thought I’d just leave with the guy?  That I’d come here and get naked with him, let it go this far?”

“I didn’t—“

“Bullshit, Sam, that’s exactly what you thought.  You thought I’d decided to do this job myself, maybe have a little fun while I was at it, right?”

Sam’s shaking his head, denial in his eyes, hands that were reaching now turned up as though warding off Dean’s words.

“No, Dean, it wasn’t like that.  I mean, yes, I thought you’d decided to do the job on your own, but I didn’t think—Not until I came in here and saw you.  Then I was just—“

Dean narrows his eyes.  “You were just what, Sam?  What were you ‘just’?”

 “Jealous as hell.  And really, really angry.”

 “Well here’s a clue for future reference, college boy. I’ve never cheated on you, never given you any reason to think I would, either.  So you ever see me naked under some guy, you’ll know I didn’t get there because I wanted to be.   Clear?”

 Sam only nods, but Dean can see the tears dammed in his eyes that are keeping him from speaking.

Then, “You really think I’m such a whore?”  This is whispered, because Dean’s got tears of his own to deal with.  He hates that Sam can make him feel this way, more vulnerable than coming to in a strange room with his pants down around his knees and a dead man spraying blood over his bare chest.

“No, Dean.  God…”  And Dean couldn’t get away from Sam’s attempt to hold him this time, even if there weren’t a bed right up against the back of his knees.  

They’re together with no air between them and not a breath to spare, a single, long, sucking kiss that tears from Dean a desperate, awful sound that makes Sam tighten his already painful grip.  They fall backward onto the disused mattress, dust ghosting up around them, and the filth of the room, the stench of the still-smoking ash, it falls away as they re-enact the scene in order to erase it, Sam tearing Dean’s tee-shirt up and over his brother’s head, Dean making a gasping sound like he’s trying not to scream as Sam sears a scalding line of wet kisses down his sweating chest.

Sam rises off of Dean with graceful haste, shedding his own clothes in seconds while Dean shimmies his boxers and jeans down.

Sam’s hand stops Dean’s, trapping him mid-motion with the pants at his knees again.  With deliberation that belies their mutual need, Sam slowly pulls the jeans and boxers the rest of the way off of Dean, making it clear that this is different, that Dean has a choice.

Standing there with Dean’s discarded clothes pooled around his bare feet, Sam waits, and Dean watches his brother waiting, seeing the need light his eyes, seeing the way his abdomen tenses with every tight breath, knowing that he could say no and that it would be okay.

He reaches up a hand that does not shake and lets his fingertips trace a pattern in the sweat just above Sam’s navel.

That’s all it takes.

Sam surges over him and Dean parts his thighs, letting Sam settle all of his weight there, feeling the way their sweaty skin sticks and then slides, friction like fire between them.

Dean opens his mouth and takes Sam’s tongue into his mouth, making obscene sounds like he’s sucking something lower down, and Sam moans loud into Dean’s mouth so that Dean feels it vibrating in his own throat.  Then Sam is squeezing a big hand between them and wrapping it around their cocks, driving upward into it so that his hard length brushes all along Dean’s straining member.

Dean can’t move, Sam’s crushing weight driving the breath out of him with every upward thrust, the pleasure spiraling up from his cock, spreading wide across his pelvis, through his belly and up his spine, making him weak with need.

He throws his head back, neck muscles cording, and screams as Sam bites down on the sharp line of his collarbone, answering Sam’s bite by dragging his fingernails down Sam’s back and gripping his brother’s ass hard, until Sam is making animal-like sounds with every rough thrust.

Sam tightens his grip, and Dean swears he can feel the hollows between each fisted finger even as the head of Sam’s cock catches against the most sensitive slit at the top of his own.

And then he’s screaming, the orgasm ripping through him, soaking his belly with a scalding stream, and then Sam is, too, shouting something that might be Dean’s name, adding his own slick seed to the mess sliding between them.

Sam collapses against Dean, hot breath gusting across Dean’s wet neck, and rumbles something in Dean’s ear.

“What?” he manages between attempted breaths—Sam is fucking heavy.

“Mine.”

That’s clear enough, Dean thinks, even as he levers his brother’s dead weight off of him.  Sam shifts onto his side, facing Dean, looking down into his brother’s face as though searching for some sign.

Or waiting for an answer.

“Yours,” Dean replies.  

Then, “Only.”

Sam dips a long finger into Dean’s navel and then brings it to Dean’s mouth.  Dean opens his lips wide and willing and sucks Sam’s finger clean, swallowing down their mingled seed as Sam’s eyes watch Dean’s mouth like he’s starving for what Dean is eating.  

Dean drags a lazy finger across his belly and brings it to Sam’s lips, then, and his brother takes the digit in, eyes darkening as he tastes them together.

“Only,” Dean repeats, the closest he can come to what neither of them have ever needed to hear said aloud.

Sam nods, eyes suspiciously bright, and then says, “Yours, too.”

“Guess that makes us even, then,” Dean says, sitting up and considering if he has enough energy to gather his scattered clothes.

“And lucky,” Sam adds, mirroring his brother.

“Yeah.”

Then.  
  
“Definitely.”


End file.
